Keepsake
by cato as a pun
Summary: Several years have passed since Sylar last saw Mohinder, and he's feeling restless. Mohinder/Sylar


_Uhm, I posted this on LJ about a month or so ago, and decided to post it here as well. I hope you likey._

_**Summary:** Several years have passed since Sylar last saw Mohinder, and he's feeling restless. _

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own 'Heroes' or its characters._

**_Spoilers:_** _Well, you should probably have seen 'Parasite' in Season 1 and 'Powerless' in Season 2. You know, at least._

_**Warnings:** Slashiness of the Mohinder/Sylar variety._

* * *

Sylar walks steadily down a slick New York sidewalk, burying his hands deep in his pockets as he watches his breath moving before him, rising as smoky puffs and eventually disappearing.

It's becoming too cold in the city now. He should be long gone, headed somewhere warmer, exotic. Far enough away that he can fade into some new life; pretend that he's someone, anyone, else. But he can't bring himself to do it.

Petrelli and the others have left him alone for some time now. They're all too busy dealing with The Company and trying to discern who their real allies and enemies are to worry about him. Anyway, he hasn't taken any new abilities in months.

He's simply been roaming.

Life has fallen under the haze of some sort of fog for Sylar, it no longer has the vibrant color it had from the moment he realized he was indeed special; when he finally grasped his own destiny and took full control of it.

No, now everything is simply _gray_. There's nothing left that leaves him feeling truly excited; nothing that sends his blood pulsating so quickly through his veins that he can feel it warming every inch of his skin as it moves through him.

For a while, that feeling had filled his every waking moment. His desire to consume, to learn, to grow more powerful had ensured that. Each time he had taken a new gift had been like a re-awakening, a rebirth.

Then, there had been Mohinder. Mohinder, whose smile temporarily made Sylar forget who and what he really was: a murderer, a hunter ever on the prowl.

Sylar hadn't been prepared for it; hadn't been prepared to be mesmerized by the smooth, alluring tone of his voice or the excited craving for knowledge ever-present in his eyes. It had happened so quickly, came without any warning and side-blinded Sylar completely, nearly shattering the wall of detachment he'd built up around himself.

It had happened immediately.

One moment, everything had been right; in place. He'd just acquired a new ability; it had practically been served to him when the man, Zane, mistook him for Dr. Suresh. The next, he's staring into the most gorgeous face he's ever seen, and feeling his carefully laid plans falling silently away.

After that, life for Sylar had been swept up in a whirlwind of confliction. While everything he was screamed for Mohinder, told him to reach out and touch him, the man he had become refused to give in. Mohinder was nothing but a distraction, he told himself, only one of life's tests.

That was several years ago, and he has since established himself as nothing more than a monster in Mohinder's eyes.

It shouldn't matter, especially after so much time has passed, but it does and Sylar still finds himself thinking about it late at night when the only sounds to be heard are slight and distant, rising from the streets below his window. His mind goes back to Montana, to Mohinder, and he denounces himself for lingering on the subject at all.

Still, it happens night after night; sneaking into his consciousness when he least suspects it. And now, as he glances upwards at the heavy clouds moving across the sky, the thoughts return and he closes his eyes against them, willing them away.

When they remain, he groans, rolling his eyes at his own pathetic situation.

He knows where Mohinder works these days, the same place he had been using as a lab the last time they'd had a real conversation. The Company had tried to relocate him within their walls, but Mohinder had refused, maintaining his stubborn attitude until they gave in and let him stay in the painter's loft. Now, he works there under Petrelli's protection, no longer a slave to the Company's demands.

Sylar sighs loudly, considering this. There is a decision to be made, and it must be made now. He can leave like he knows he should, and mostly wants to do, forever shedding the past and leaving behind the trail of blood that follows him all through the city. Or, he can hunt down Mohinder, appear out of nowhere after so much time has passed and risk tripping Peter Petrelli's alarm.

He stares down at the ground momentarily, debating with himself. A moment passes, and he grins.

He never _was_ one to turn and run from a challenge.

- -

Sylar's steps slow as he reaches the front windows of the loft. No one seems to be around, and he almost feels disappointed. He hasn't used his abilities to fight anyone worthwhile in ages, and he itches with the need to do so.

But, as he rests his hand on the doorknob, pausing and listening carefully, his attention falls solely on what he has come to do. He can hear movement inside. Mohinder.

Pushing the door open, he steps inside and glances around. No one is in the front room; he and Mohinder are the only ones here. He closes the door silently, not wanting his presence being given away until he is completely ready.

He stalks down the stairs and towards the back room. His breath catches in his throat and he stops moving again when he sees Mohinder.

He is bent over a workstation, glasses perched carefully on his face as he reads something to himself, moving his lips and forming the words as he does. His hair is mussed; black curls reach out in all directions, catching the poor light of the room. He looks tired, like he hasn't slept in days; dark circles have formed beneath his eyes. And he still has the most gorgeous goddamn face Sylar has ever seen.

He is so absorbed in his work that he hasn't noticed he is no longer alone and after a few seconds he turns away, rubbing his eyes roughly and stretching. Sylar jumps on the opportunity and takes the remaining steps to the doorway, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Tired, Doctor?"

Mohinder turns around so quickly that he knocks a rack of test tubes off the worktable, and they crash to the floor, sending tiny shards of glass all across the room.

Sylar glances down at the ill-fated rack and laughs, raising his eyes to meet Mohinder's.

"Hello to you, too."

Mohinder just stares at him, mouth partially opened, looking entirely caught off-guard.

Straightening up, Sylar takes several steps into the room, glass crunching beneath his shoes. He looks around, feigning interest. It looks mostly the same as it did the last time he'd been here, the only difference being a few more files and boxes that have piled up on the tables and counters.

"You should consider cleaning up every once in a while, Mohinder—"

"Sylar."

Again, Sylar laughs, nodding as he runs a hand over the table serving as a barrier between Mohinder and himself.

"Hello, Mohinder."

The other man eyes him nervously before swallowing hard and removing his glasses, placing them next to the file he had been reading.

"Why are you here?"

"Just thought I'd see how you're getting along these days... Miss me?"

Mohinder's eyes narrow and smolder with disdain at this and, as quickly and simply as switching on a light, he goes back to his familiar, sardonic self.

The self Sylar had so missed.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"Is that a 'no'?"

Now it's Mohinder's turn to laugh, and he backs up from the table, turning his back to Sylar and waving him off as he reaches into a cabinet, pulling out a broom.

"Get out."

"That's it? You're not even going to try and shoot me or anything? This is different."

Mohinder glares at him once more before starting to sweep, acting as though Sylar is just some other person. As though this is just some commonplace visit between mere acquaintances.

"I have more pertinent matters to deal with than playing these games with you, Sylar. Now leave—"

"More pertinent? Like all these chores Petrelli gives you? I can see how that would be so appealing."

"Good. Then leave."

Sylar rolls his eyes, wondering what it was about these kinds of conversations that had been so entrenched in his mind as to still hold him captive all these years later. It certainly wasn't Mohinder's charm.

"After all this time, that's all you have to say? I at least expected you to throw something at me."

"I'm sorry," Mohinder hisses, standing up straight and resting his weight on the broom, "you're right, Sylar. How incredibly rude of me to show you such little attention since that is clearly the reason you're here. It is, isn't it? Attention? Murder isn't cutting it anymore?"

"See? Was it that hard to talk to me?"

The broom clatters noisily to the ground as Mohinder drops it and takes several bold steps towards Sylar until they are practically face to face.

"I have no idea what your intentions were upon sneaking in here today, and I have no desire _to_ know. In the past, yes, I may have tried to kill you for all the harm you've caused to so many, myself included. But, the past is the past, so let's leave it there. Right now, all I care is that you leave. Now."

A few tense moments pass, and Sylar stares determinedly at Mohinder who does the exact same thing.

Sylar has always admired that about Mohinder; he may not be the most powerful person in the room, but he'll almost always act as though he was.

Brushing past Mohinder, Sylar further examines the room, glancing down at the files that create mountains of paper all throughout the room.

"Did you hear me-?"

"What's all this?" Sylar asks, fingering an exceptionally enormous mountain of data, and Mohinder rushes forward, pushing his hand away.

"None of your concern."

Sylar scoffs, stepping away and focusing his gaze on a cabinet just beside the spot from which Mohinder had earlier pulled the broom. A heavy lock guards it, and immediately draws his interest.

"What's in there, Doctor?"

Mohinder hesitates before answering, audibly choking on his own breath.

"Nothing. Just… research material…"

"Research material? You mean like the rest of the shit you have thrown all over the place? You used to be a better liar, Mohinder." Sylar walks toward it, reaching out to brush his fingers over the lock before Mohinder again tries to shove his hand away. This time, however, he grabs the smaller man's arm and pushes him several steps backward while simultaneously using telekinesis to break open the lock.

"Sylar, don't-!"

Mohinder's words fall on deaf ears and Sylar throws open the doors of the cabinet, a loud noise resounding as they meet the wall behind them.

Inside he expects to find some cache of confidential files, perhaps some of the 'heal anything' blood, maybe even a weapon of some sort, but all the cabinet houses is a small wooden-hinged box.

He looks at Mohinder with disappointment, prepared to say something along the lines of 'seriously?' but the look on the other man's face, a mixture of nausea and horror tell him he has clearly missed something. Mohinder looks like he's been caught in some awful deed.

Turning back to the box, Sylar sighs and reaches to open it. Mohinder scrambles to try and snatch it away again, but Sylar holds him still with his mind, lifting the lid carefully and peering inside.

He immediately feels his hold on Mohinder dissipate, and he takes a small step backwards, pulling the small box out of the cabinet, unable to pull his eyes from the contents it holds.

He can sense that Mohinder is watching him, can hear that he's holding his breath, whether intentionally or as a natural reaction, Sylar is unsure. And, he is too distracted to wonder.

His long fingers caress the smooth, green ceramic shards in the box and they feel cold against his skin. He recognizes them right away.

"You kept this?" he hears himself whispering, picking up one of the pieces and raising it to his eye-level.

He'd held this green ceramic before, of course it hadn't been in pieces then. Back then it had been a little cup, full of what he had believed was merely sweet-tasting tea.

Mohinder reaches for the box and succeeds this time in seizing it from Sylar's grip, as he is still staring at the piece in his hand, and snaps the lid shut.

"It belonged to my father. Who am I to throw it away?"

"You kept it."

"Sylar—" Mohinder's voice falls to a hushed, even tone and Sylar lifts his eyes to meet the man's gaze.

"You kept it." He says again, pointedly ignoring the look on Mohinder's face that screams 'For godssake, stop talking!'

"Why did you keep it?"

"I just told you!" The accented defense is loud, shaky. His natural even, sure tone is completely gone now, and Sylar isn't fooled for a second.

"No, Mohinder. Why did you keep it?"

They stare at each other in silence, Sylar determined to hear the answer he already knows, Mohinder determined to avoid speaking it at all.

"Mohinder—"

"Whatever it is that you have yourself convinced I am going to say, whatever ridiculous reasons you've imagined for why I never threw it out, you're wrong."

"Really?" Sylar steps quickly to Mohinder, reaching out and grabbing his arm, leaning in and whispering into his ear, "I don't think that's true."

The smaller man stares up at him, clear confusion and panic racing behind his eyes. His breath is heavy and Sylar can practically feel his quick, jumping pulse beneath his fingers.

"Let me go."

Sylar grins at this, but doesn't release his grip. Mohinder was always so wonderfully defiant, and his refusal to give in and play the victim only serves to further incite Sylar's need to touch him.

"No. I saw the way you looked at me when I found the box, Mohinder—"

"Because I knew you'd find a way to twist my intentions around to fit your absurd reasoning—"

"No. You kept it here, all this time, locked up like some national secret. Now, you're going to tell me why."

Mohinder pulls back, finally freeing his arm and glares hard at Sylar who simply smirks back at him.

"I don't have to explain myself to you—"

"Why not? If it's so unimportant, then you should be able to tell me."

Silence falls between them as though the world has gone completely still, their eyes locked together, unblinking.

"Tell me." Sylar whispers, crossing the distance between them and reaching out to brush an unruly dark curl off of Mohinder's forehead, "tell me."

He can feel the man shudder at his touch, feels his fingers burn as they make slight contact with the smooth skin of Mohinder's face.

"Fine…I'll tell you, Sylar. But, first you have to tell me…"

"Tell you what..?"

"Why you're here. Why, after all this time, all that has passed, you are here, now. You tell me that, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

Touché.

Leave it to Mohinder to match Sylar's demands with demands of his own. Anyone else would have given in, afraid for his or her life, but not Mohinder. He was too smart to be afraid.

Sylar nods, stepping back and returning his gaze to the piles of paper stacked around him.

"No one has bothered with me in a long time" he starts, not quite sure how to go about describing why he's here when he can barely understand it himself, "I was getting bored. Restless."

He runs his hand along a microscope, pretending to examine its smooth exterior before continuing. He feels Mohinder's eyes boring into his back, and it sends electricity down his spine.

"I'm fairly surprised your friend Mr. Petrelli hasn't knocked down my door looking for me, what with his hero complex and all."

"You are no longer his greatest concern. Not that I'm shocked you feel that way… what with your ego issues and all."

Sylar turns back to Mohinder, who eyes him with a raised brow and almost playful smirk, and laughs, shaking his head slightly before returning his gaze to the counter on which the microscope sits.

"Right… Well, either way, I started feeling I needed to leave. There's nothing left for me here. I thought it would be best for me if I left the city—"

"And yet, here you are."

Suddenly, Sylar feels too exposed for comfort. He tenses and remains silent, finding himself unable to look at Mohinder again. When had he become the powerless one? When had he allowed himself to be in such a vulnerable position?

Mohinder, being Mohinder, knows where this conversation was headed, and Sylar isn't sure he likes that. Being one step ahead was something they both strived for, and he'd just fallen behind.

After a moment, he hears movement behind him and feels Mohinder's presence at his side. He glances at him, dark eyes meeting dark eyes.

"Yeah… Here I am."

"Why?"

Sylar cringes at the word, regretting his earlier badgering of Mohinder. He'd asked the very same question, expecting the very same answer he is sure the other man does now.

"Because—" the words catch in his throat and he stops, unable to continue. The other man watches him for a second, then smiles and steps closer.

"Because you couldn't let go," Mohinder places the little wooden box between them, looking at it with a deep understanding, a look that speaks volumes to Sylar, "you wanted to, you tried to… but you couldn't."

And Sylar has his answer. He acts quickly, cupping Mohinder's face in his hands and gazing at him, taking in his features, each inch of skin, each apparent imperfection, the depth of his worn eyes.

"Well, I guess we're stuck then," he whispers, moving his hands down dark-skinned arms, intertwining their fingers together as he leans in and presses his forehead to Mohinder's. Their breath plays across their faces, heating and moistening, and Sylar can feel soft eyelashes like velvet against his skin.

"Yes, I suppose we are."

Sylar smiles, not moving away, but glancing at the little box, allowing his mind to close the lid, hiding the broken treasure inside.

He moves a hand up, running shaky fingers over the skin of Mohinder's throat.

This is it. The thought of running away is now only a fading memory; Mohinder is like the sun, warm and glowing, and Sylar can not escape his gravitational pull.

"So… you're still leaving then..?" Mohinder asks, pulling back somewhat; the seriousness of his question masked by playful intonation.

Their eyes lock once more, and Sylar tightens his grip on the other man's hand.

"Come on, Mohinder. Do I ever?"

"I guess not. You're impossible to get rid of, like a cockroach or something."

"Please, don't flatter me." Sylar laughs, wrapping his arms around Mohinder and capturing his lips in a deep kiss, years of mutual longing creating electricity between them as each man tries to drink in his fill of the other.

Sylar's head spins with euphoria, and he when he pulls up to catch his breath, everything seems vivid, _alive _again. The gray cloud has lifted, and all it took was Mohinder's touch. This is where he was meant to be from the start, here, like this. No distance, no amount of time had or could change that.

So, this is where he will stay.


End file.
